


Beyond Stars || Superwholock Fanfic

by startledstoat111



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Aliens, Bigger On The Inside, Crossover, Gen, Loki - Freeform, Pagan religion, TARDIS - Freeform, hostages, spaceship, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5529326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startledstoat111/pseuds/startledstoat111
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have just finished a job in Ohio when they get the call. It is a man, with everything he thought he knew lying in shattered pieces around his feet, all logic and reason abandoned. His name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. And he's found a box. A police box that had previously escaped the notice of his ever searching eyes, that had simply appeared on the corner of Lansown road. A box, he said, that was bigger on the inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Landing || DW

"Well that wasn't meant to happen." The Doctor stated calmly from his position on the floor. Smoke still rose in uneven bursts from the console, and the odd storm of sparks were thrown into the air with a metallic hiss. 

"You don't say?" Amy asked nobody in particular as she got to her feet. "Where are we then?" 

The Doctor leapt to his feet with an odd burst of energy, a sudden childishness about his features. "Not a clue. Isn't that great?" He shot her a grin as he practically skipped to the door. "Come along, Ponds! Things to see, worlds to save! Could be the Scryos Galaxy, that has an annoyingly strong mataforlical pull, or maybe the spheres of panthageon, they could have temporarily..." He bounded through the door, with Amy close behind, leaving Rory to ruefully pick himself up from the stairs he'd been thrown onto minutes before. 

Hurrying to catch up, he pushed his way through the T.A.R.D.I.S doors; only to be confronted with half a dozen guns about an inch from his nose. Automatically, almost with his consent, his foot slipped backward- slamming the door shut behind him. He thought he saw the Doctor smile grimly, a small twitch of satisfaction against a face otherwise painted with determination. 

Behind where he and Amy stood, similarly restrained, he could see towering towers of sapphire; a multitude of prisms carved from seemingly pure sunlight; distantly, a river ran red. Rory swallowed, and dared a glance at his captives. Hulking masses, each easily reached seven foot. All of them were clad in black body armour, holding guns that seemed far too small in comparison. Their faces were a gnarled mess of dark brown flesh. 

One of them clamped a hand across Rory's arm, and pulled him aside from the others. Above the clamour inside his head, he could just make out Amy, calling his name. He tried to respond, to tell her he could handle it, when a familiar groaning filled the air.

They all jerked back as the faint white light washed over them, and as suddenly as if it had never been there, the T.A.R.D.I.S was gone. Rory hadn't even mustered a swear word as their only possible escape from this planet vanished into thin air. Silence filled the air like a held breath. 

It broke as suddenly as a dam- the aliens were shouting, demanding an explanation, the Doctor was trying to get some speech out, flapping his hands, motioning for some peace, Rory blubbered out panicked questions. Amy stood, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. The cacophony drained away. 

"You!" The creature spat in mangled English. With shock, Rory realized he was taking to him. 

"You have been nominated az de leader of yours group-"

"Wait what!?"

"- You weell tell who yous are, and how you'd got on our planet."

"Oh, um great." He said faintly. He did not turn his body, but asked as loud as he dared. "So um... what's the answer that doesn't get us killed?"


	2. Inconspicuous || LOCK

Sherlock had never paid much attention to the old police box off Landsown road. It had been there for as long as he had- a constant timeless monument that had somehow escaped the notice of Sherlock's ever searching eyes. He never knew why. His thoughts passed around the oddity like a water around bedrock in a river-seeing, yes, but not observing, not taking the time to examine it the same way he did the rest of the world around him. Between the thudding sprint of his own mind, desperate to solve just one more puzzle, and the fading haze of the cocktail that made his life bearable, he could always look just past it. 

When John came into his life, things changed. The mist, and those knife sharp moments of lucidity faded, leaving a wrenching nothing, a lull to his days that ached to be filled with the high of the cocaine. With that wonderful substance coursing through his bloodstream, the world around him was so clear. Technicolor, with everything highlighted; the important, the uninteresting and the deadly, all mixed up together: bright and demanding, the world around him shocking in its simplicity. Yet with John, he had the rush in his blood, the cool contemplation of a problem that bought him some temporary relief from the pounding in his skull... And yet. It was more than that- with John, he knew he was accepted as nothing more or less than exactly what he was. And that was so much better than the buzz of drugs in his system, so much so that one day, Sherlock woke with the realisation that he didn't actually need the high anymore. He didn't even want it. 

Slowly, he began to see again- with the same relentlessness that caused him to spiral in the first place, and this time he used it to his advantage. Questioning, constantly questioning, until he could see an old police box, chipped and dirty, with rubbish collecting at its base standing guard at the end of Landown road. 

The key arrived the same day, or perhaps it had always been there, and he just hadn't seen it. He didn't pay any attention to it at first, neglected on his doorstep- in fact he barely gave it a thought. The police box, that conundrum he had never seen the likes of before dominated his mind. How did it get there? It was the small things that mattered, Sherlock knew. And that box- all he could do was think how, and form various hypotheses, each as unlikely as the last. The key was unimportant. John would sort it. He only noticed when, later into that evening, it began to glow.


	3. Now dialling... || SPN

When the end came, it was quick, sudden. They had been hunting this particular vampire for a while now; every day for nearly a week the dawn had greeted another corpse, limp and lifeless. And now, finally, it was over. Dean had found the receipt that led them there, and they had discovered an entire nest of the bloodsuckers, with hostages to boot. Working together, they had swept the entire building, freeing prisoners as they went. That had led them here. To this. 

Sam had taken the final blow- a quick grapple of blades and glinting fangs, then a flash of silver, and a detached head that rolled twice on the gravel to signify a job well done. Dean hauled his brother up from where he lay, winded on ground, and slapped him across the back. 

"Nice job Sammy."

Sam spared one last disdainful glance at the creature- it seemed so small. They always did, once the job was done. In life they were the feared monsters of the night, with deadly fangs and indescribable strength. Yet, once the shot had been fired, the blade swung, they were mortal once again. They were nothing. 

"Hey lets grab a burger on the way back-"

It was then, naturally, that the phone rang. 

With the barest roll of his eyes, Dean sheathed his blade, and went to fish it from his jeans pocket. His fingers, slippy with blood, fumbled on the green button, and by the time he got it to his ear it had reached answer phone. 

Impatiently, he listened to the message. His annoyance visibly faded with every word. In fact, by the end he was almost smiling. 

"Heads up." He tossed the phone to Sam, and shrugged in answer to his questioning look. "You might wanna hear that for yourself."

Curious, Sam pressed the phone against his ear. He could just make out the tinny voice on the other end of the line. 

The man on the other end burst into speech, with no introductions or preamble.

"They say you guys are experts. The real deal. And to be honest, I could use an expert right about now." There is silence for a few seconds, as if the guy is trying to get a hold of himself. "Alright. Alright. There is this police box. It doesn't move, it never moves, but I got this key... and I opened it. And this box, this box barely big enough for two people to stand in... it's the bloody enterprise. This sort of control room, with these lights and this incredible computer thing... Christ, I can't describe it. There aren't words. I would go to the police, but a ...uh... friend of mine occupies a minor position in the British government. If he saw my name on this... No. I need you guys. You gotta help me. This is some messed up stuff... I didn't actually find the box, that was my roommate, he hasn't spoken or moved for nearly three days straight now- to be honest I'm getting a little worried-"

Without realizing it, Sam's mouth had fallen open. The police box.

The voice wavered for a second, before cutting off suddenly. Sam could just make out voices in the background. 

"Oh John, sit down dearie, I'll get you a biscuit, just this once you understand." Suddenly, a voice cut in, attentive and very much there. It was more panicked than the other mans voice; and somehow seemed to contain something sharp. 

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Will that be enough to be getting on with?" 

Sam hadn't heard of either of the men, but what they had described...Sam met Dean's gleeful eyes. 

"No way. No way."

"Oh yes way."

"But it hasn't been seen since... God, I don't even know."

Dean was grinning now, that hunters gleam in his eyes. "I know man. And the airports only twenty miles away- we can be there before nightfall tomorrow. Cas doesn't have much angel juice- he can't take us and the car, but he might be able to swing airport security."

Sam let out a half- laugh, unable to quite believe their luck. But something was still worrying him- Not the box itself: he and Dean were almost constantly surrounded by the supernatural. But its inhabitant.

"What about... him?" He asked slowly, seeming to weight each word.

Dean swallowed; hid his clear apprehension behind a brash laugh. 

"C'mon Sammy, we've faced monsters and immortals, angels and demons. We can handle some Lord."

"Dean, stop trying to act like this is an ordinary hunt!" 

Dean shrugged, open-palmed. "Alright- so this guy is big. Very big. We've hunted bigger."

"Dude, we're not hunting him! Do you know how many times he's saved this planet?"

"Well, no-"

"Neither do I. Neither do u.n.i.t. They've lost freaking count. Doesn't that tell you something? He makes us look like garden variety nutjobs, with an extra serving of bat-shit crazy!"

"Fine!" Dean snapped in frustration. "So we don't gank the thing. But we're checking him out, and if this guys dodgy... the colt would take him out."

"Fine." Sam gave in. "But we owe him Dean- we all do, and if we're some of the only people on earth who even know he exists- maybe it's up to us to repay that debt."

"Joy." Dean tried to joke. His voice did not hold the slightest trace of humour. 

They slid into the Impala, muscles tense, eyes darting back and forth. Neither of them had even said the name out loud, but each could feel the hair, standing upright against their skin, and the imagined eyes boring into the back of their heads. Although nervous, Sam couldn't completely hide his excitement. To have read so much about the man- he'd dreamed of this since he'd first managed to hack u.n.i.t- when he was only sixteen- and now he was going to meet him- actually talk to the guy- he was real- aliens- holy crap, this was really happening. Monsters, angels, demons, were one thing... But aliens? Something else entirely. 

One glance at Dean told him that he did not share his anticipation. Dean's face was stoic, as emotionless as he could force it to be. If Sam didn't know his brother as well as he did, he would be unable to see the storm raging behind that distance. He hadn't even mentioned the fact that they would have to fly- that's when Sam knew something was really wrong. Although he had no doubt he would hear about it later, it still worried him, almost as much as the living legend they were chasing across the globe.

There was not one speed limit that Dean did not break on the way to the airport.


	4. Really Not The Plan || DW

The Doctor was panicking. Or very close to it, at least. 

"Wait no, Rory!" He called. Amy could see that his plan-okay, as close to a plan as the Doctor ever got- was rapidly falling apart. Amy didn't know why she was surprised. 

"Rory!" She yelled. "Where are you taking-" She turned to the Doctor. "Where are they taking him!"

"Um, well, I'm not completely, 100 percent sure-"

"Where do you think they're taking him, then?"

"Maybe- no. Would they-oh they wouldn't. No, don't worry about it, Pond. Nothing to worry about-"

"Doctor!"

"Fine." He said seriously. "I've met these people-well, not really people, more giant space dinosaurs with guns- before- well, not really before, in their time stream I don't know if they've met me yet- and they don't really like me- I know, I'm shocked too, I don't know what's not to like really-"

"Doctor!"

"Stasis chamber." He said, finally pausing to breathe. "They'll maintain breath and heartbeat. He'll be perfectly okay Pond- promise. In fact, with our amazing escape plan- which I'm currently working on, by the way- we might reach him before he even gets there." 

"Okay." Amy said, letting out a breath in a lingering exhale. "Okay, I can work with that." 

The giant space dinosaurs with guns let out grunts, and pulled them apart, yanking some metal-restrainty-looking-thingys that Amy did not like the sight of at all out of their pockets.

"Uh, you were saying something about an escape plan?" She said. The Doctor tossed a strained smile her way. 

"Working on it!"

~~~

For nearly an hour, space dinosaurs #1 and #2- she had to think of better names- led her along bare white corridors, each filled with doors, each as identical as the last. Finally, they reached a weird white pod, cylindrical, with a strip of clinical white light. 

"Oh, hell no. I'm not going in there."

"It is until wees contact our commander. Yous will remain in the chamber for the time being-"

"Forget it!"

"Yous do not have a choice in the matter-"

Without warning, tremors rocked the buildings, and all three of them were thrown off balance. Amy managed to cling onto a half railing protruding from the wall, and stagger to her feet. Yet something was wrong with her captors: they seemed to be having problems getting up, their bodies lumbering from side to side. Amy didn't stop to worry about it. She sprinted away, fear pulsing through her as the weapons were discharged behind her. Red rays of light smashed into the ground a few centimetres away from her feet: she slammed into the wall, and jettisoned herself around the corner. 

She stopped for a second, gasping in deep lungfuls of oxygen, then pushed herself off again, not knowing where exactly she was aiming, but knowing precisely where she was going. To her husband, to her Doctor. Then to wherever the Doctor had stashed the damn Tardis. Then a nice, peaceful planet. Maybe some cocktails on Mars.

In the mean time though, she was still trapped on a hostile alien planet, with no idea where Rory or the Doctor- oh god, were they taking off?

Amy pulled herself to a port like window, and saw dusty red earth falling rapidly away. Now that she was still, she could hear the dull thrumming of the engines beneath her. 

She didn't know what it meant, but she knew it wasn't good. She turned the next corner, and crashed headlong into something. Someone. She scrambled backwards, already prepared to run, when she realized the man in front of her was wearing a bow tie. 

She took in the sight of the Doctor for a split second- white shirt ripped in several places, hair dirty and disheveled, face smudged with what looked like a mixture of oil and blood- then threw her arms around his neck. The Doctor hugged her fiercely back. 

"Ah it's good to see you. You, uh, wanna let go now?" Amy said, struggling to disentangle herself. 

"Not really." He mumbled into her neck. 

"Doctor?" She said with more gentleness. She eased herself from his arms, and looked up into his face. What she saw there scared her. His usual puppyish grin was absent. That light in his eyes that told her everything was going to be okay had dimmed. Instead, she saw only guilt, and something which looked very close to fear. 

"Doctor. What's wrong? You're scared, you're never scared."

He swallowed. 

"Talk to me."

He shifted, yanked at his bow tie, ruffled his hair: abruptly shifting into action, as if he had just realized where he was. 

"Pond, something bad is going to happen. Something very bad. Maybe it already has. The damage... will be catastrophic. I've called for help, but-"

"Wait a sec." Amy said, one eyebrow raised. "You called for help? But you're mister I'm a thousand years old, of course I can fix this massively complicated hyperflux engine in ten minutes. Why would you call for help?"

He looked at her for a moment, eyes sad and serious. 

"Because this isn't maybe a fuse will blow if I mess this up- which, by the way, I totally didn't. This is a very big, very bad, and I don't want you and Rory mixed up in this. And I need help because- because I need them to do what I can't- I can't-"

"Doctor? Doctor, you're not making any sense. What do you mean-"

The Doctor was suddenly still. "Oh you idiot! Oh you stupid, stupid man! Rory! Rory!"

"What about him? Where is he?"

The Doctor was running again then, taking a complicated path through white corridor after plain white corridor. Once, they turned the corner to run right into a group of the aliens, apparently deep in conversation. 

"Oops!" The Doctor said. "Wrong way!" They spun around to run again, and the Doctor pulled his sonic screwdriver from his inner jacket pocket. He pointed it at a grid on a ventilation shaft, and it let out a low warbling sound. It glowed green, and the screws slid neatly slid from their sockets. They crawled into the narrow shaft just as the red blasts of light hit the wall behind them. The Doctor soniced the hatch behind them, and they commandoed it until they reached a T-junction. They quickly went left, but Amy hesitated for a second, then pulled the doctors bow tie from around his neck, and tossed it the other way. 

"Hey!" He protested. Amy hushed him, then motioned for him to keep going. 

"But-" 

She stabbed her finger forwards, lips pursed. 

"Oh fine!" They continued to shuffle, until they could make out the sounds of pursuit behind them. They kept completely still. Amy briefly wondered how the alien's massive bodies fit in the vents, but did not worry about it for long. They barely dared breath as they heard the things come to the junction, then- slowly- turn down the right hand passage. Amy stuck her tongue out at the Doctor, then motioned for him to keep moving. He rolled his eyes with a fond smile that was barely there, then did as she commanded. 

They soon reached another vent. Doctor quickly glanced to make sure there were no aliens, then opened it and wriggled out. The moment he pulled Amy to her feet, he was running again. 

"Doctor!" Amy shouted. "Will you please calm down, and tell me where my husband is!"

He glanced back to her, and there was something dark in his eyes. 

"That wasn't a stasis chamber." He said finally. 

Amy blinked, uncomprehending. "Then what was it?" She asked slowly. 

"An eternity chamber. It, well, it stretches out time itself, makes every second last longer. He's been in there nearly half an hour- dangerous, very dangerous."

Amy still didn't understand the enormity of the situation, or perhaps she didn't want to. 

"So what does that mean?" She asked, her voice low and urgent. 

The Doctor took a deep breath and met her searching gaze head on. 

"I don't know." He said. "I don't know. He could have been in there days. It could have- it could have been years."


	5. Tick Tock... ||DW

On the first day, Rory knew the Doctor would get them out. Although he and Amy had also been taken prisoner, he knew the Doctor had to have some scheme or other to get free. And besides, there was that whole vanishing Tardis- that had to mean something. Once they had discovered that Rory knew nothing, they had turned to the others. The humanoid things were angry, violent- and before he had even opened his mouth, Rory knew the Doctors everyone get along lets-all-sit-by-a-campfire-and-roast-marshmallows strategy would not wash with them. 

After about an hour of being frogmarched along clinical corridors, they had reached a sort of room. It was cylindrical, with white walls, white ceiling, white floors. 

"Hang on-" Rory tried. Before he'd gotten out the last syllable, his face had connected with the interior wall. 

"Ow." He mumbled. "Ow. Also owwww. What the-"

The door slammed shut. 

"Great." He muttered. 

Later that day, well after he'd begun to talk to himself- or his captors, who he'd no doubt were listening, he'd suggested a change in the colour scheme. They'd ignored him. They did not offer him food, or water. He massaged his temple- a lump had sprung up, as large as a chickens egg. Or one of those Hindinguss creatures from Racaloepotyamlo, although Rory didn't like remembering that experience, or that planet. 

~~~

On the seventy eighth day, Rory was certain the Doctor would get them out. He was just waylaid, that was. Temporarily delayed. 

The thing was, Rory was beginning to be afraid. Although, yes, he was worried about the Doctor and Amy, he was starting to silently freak out about himself. He hadn't eaten or drank anything in months, yet he did not hunger. He hadn't urinated- he didn't need to. Rory had been a nurse for many years, and every instinct he had told him he was dead. Well, either that, or some really weird space crap was going on. He preferred the latter. 

~~~

On the two hundred and fifty sixth day, Rory trusted the Doctor would get them out. He had been counting the days by the number of fitful sleeps he'd managed to snatch, and each time he woke, he ripped a small tear in the hem of his jeans. One reason was that it let him keep track of the days slipping through the hour glass. The other was because they did it in movies, and it looked cool. 

In the movies though, Rory thought bitterly, the hero would make a daring escape. Instead, he was going to sit here and rot.

~~~

On the six hundred and seventy second day, Rory believed the Doctor would get them out. He had to have some scheme, some plan- he wouldn't have- he couldn't have just left him here. But maybe he and Amy were sharing his torment- each locked in their own airless coffins. No- no. He couldn't stand the idea of his wife going slowly mad within these walls. Perhaps- yes- the Doctor had broken free, but he didn't want to endanger Amy. He was coming to rescue him, right now. Amy was probably in the Tardis, sipping a cup of that chamomile stuff she liked, maybe wearing that jumper he bought her for Christmas two years ago. Or was it three, now?

~~~

On the one thousandth four hundred and first day, Rory was convinced the Doctor would get them out. His plan clearly took time. After all, he was a time traveller: the normal bounds of time escaped him. This was probably a tea break for him. 

Rory had waited two thousand years. This was a tea break for him too. But this was different. So different. Before, Amy had been relatively safe, and he'd known the Doctor was coming. Now... He was going to waste away, in this pitiless hell. Or maybe he wouldn't: maybe he'd stay, heart beating and pumping, forcing unwanted life through his body. 

On the two thousandth one hundred and eighth day, Rory believed the Doctor would get them out. Rory talked to himself nearly all the time now- other than the croak of his own voice, his prison was utterly silent. He wondered what the football score was- whether Chelsea had won the league yet. Weather wasn't looking too great today, was it? 

He would be struck randomly by phantom cramps- something akin to hunger, yet never quite reaching it. A ghost of a feeling, gone before he realized it was there. 

So many times now, he had raged, punching walls until his fingers bled, screaming until his voice was hoarse. It never did any good. He hadn't cried in months though. It hurt too much. His body couldn't produce liquid, so he lay, sobs puncturing the suffocating silence, yet so incomplete, so empty, it felt like the abyss was tearing him apart from the inside out. 

It didn't matter though. Because on the two thousand eight hundred and twenty ninth day, Rory Williams gave up.


	6. Not in Kansas anymore || SPN/LOCK

"What are we thinking?" Sam asked as he got out of the hire car. "We going in as Feds?"

Dean paused just enough to glare at the red and blue vehicle, then shrugged. "They called us. They know who we are." They hadn't dressed the part anyway, each wearing plaid and jackets. 

They both stopped at the front door- it was a shiny black, with an ornate 221B gilded from gold, and a knocker that hung crooked against the paint. The building itself was bare, compared to the Christmas lights adorning the other buildings around it. 

It took a few minutes for them to answer the door- Sam was seriously considering getting out a lockpick- but it opened eventually. A thin woman swung it open. She was wearing a skin tight black dress, with brown hair pulled back, and a just visible slant of lipstick. 

"Um, hello!" She said, a bit flustered. 

"Hel-lo." Dean said, just refraining from whistling, and enjoying the blush spreading across the woman's cheeks. 

"John didn't say we were expecting anyone else!"

Dean immediately straightened, disappointed, and pointedly ignoring the amused smile Sam threw in his direction. 

"Ah, sorry, Mrs...?" 

"Oh no, Miss, Miss Hooper. Call me Molly. What can I do for you?"

"Oh- yes, we were looking for someone named... er, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Sherlock? Yes, he's upstairs- he's not going to-"

"Trust me, Miss Hooper." Dean said, pulling his Fed badge. "He'll want to talk to us."

Molly's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. 

"He's not in trouble is he?" She demanded, running her hands up her arms to keep warm. Sam noticed the trail of goosebumps across her skin, and interceded. 

"Look, why don't we take this inside? We just want to talk." He reassured Molly.

"I- yes okay, then." 

They followed her up the stairs, and into a cluttered room which somehow spoke of home. Patterned wallpaper; desks with paper scattered haphazardly around; a violin left carelessly on the side. Of more importance though, were the four people already in the room. A lanky man with the wispy beginnings of a beard. A stouter, cleanshaven man wearing a Christmas jumper who sat oddly upright- Sam had him pegged as ex military the moment he walked in. An elderly woman held a cup of tea loosely in her hand, an expectant smile already in place. A fourth figure sat facing the window- he was taller than the others, and glanced towards them as they came in, eyes dark and unreadable. 

"Um, hi." Sam said, taken aback. He had been expecting two or three people, in a quiet room where they could talk. Not- this. 

He went to pull out his Fed badge again, Dean shadowing him. It could do no good to announce their true purpose to this crowd. 

"We're here from the F.B.I." Dean started. "My name is Agent Collins-"

"No it's not." The tall man interrupted calmly. 

Dean did a double take. "I'm sorry?"

"No it's not." The man said again, spinning around to face them. "The callouses between your right thumb and forefinger suggests you use blunt instruments in confrontation on a regular basis, something that the F.B.I does not encourage. The outline of the gun in your pocket is too slim to be standard issue. Could be personalized- more likely it's useful in your line of work. The shadows under your eyes indicate chronic insomnia, which would have gotten you removed from duty in under three months, and even an American intelligence service couldn't miss a case as obvious as that."

"What the hell-"

"Oh lets not stop there!" The man said with false enthusiasm, swinging himself up off the chair. 

"Sherlock-" The shorter man tried to cut in. Sherlock brushed him aside. "Do be quiet John. It seems the rest of the would no longer obey logic, why should I?"

He walked slowly towards the boys, who took a sharp step back. 

"The jacket your wearing is slightly too big. It obviously belonged to your father- clearly dead now, or you wouldn't be wearing it. It has sentimental value, yes, but it's more than that. The jacket, the music playing from your car as you approached, even the way you walk. You are trying to be like him- and the rings around your eyes tell me that you think you're failing."

Dean didn't realize he was trembling, each muscle in his body dying to punch a hole through this guys face. Only the gentle pressure of Sam's hand on his arm kept him stationary. 

"That's enough!" Sam said forcefully, taking a step in front of his brother. "Look, we just wanted to talk about-"

"Oh Sam, you're a dark one." Sherlock mocked. There was no sign of humour in his features. He was almost manic, each word tripping over the one before. 

"The way you stand in behind your brother, you're clearly younger, but you step in front of him- you care about him, but you're afraid to let him down."

Sherlock's quick eyes missed nothing, dancing between the two, cataloguing and analysing every glance.

"Oh, but you already have, haven't you?" There was savage pleasure in his voice. "Don't worry Sam, Dean doesn't blame you. The protective stance, he obviously raised you, or near to it. He'd forgive you anything, but you look guilty- oh! Obvious, really. You don't think you deserve forgiveness. And not just about doing whatever Dean so disapproved about- there's more. You flinched, so family then. Your mother- who obviously died a painful death. But somehow, although you don't blame her, she must have-"

In the end, it was hard to tell who moved first: Sam, Dean, or John. John could see which way the wind was blowing, and stepped to quieten Sherlock. By that moment though, Sam had lunged forward to grab ahold of the lapels of Sherlock's shirt, and Dean had helped drive him backwards, pinning him against the wall. Dean had only landed a single blow, slamming a clenched fist against bone, before John hauled him back. The lankier man waded in, and pulled Sam away from Sherlock, who, in the mean time, had not raised a hand to defend himself. Sam and Dean knew the men couldn't take them on their best day, but realised the futility of the situation, and allowed themselves to be pulled back. 

"That's enough- I said enough. Sherlock-"

"Jesus, Sherlock!"

"Oh, Sherlock!"

Sam wrenched himself from Johns grip, and Dean took a stance away from the others. Sam couldn't see, but he would bet anything Dean had his hand on the knife. He gave him a warning glance, and slowly, each movement forced, they both relaxed. 

"Alright." Sam said, each word low and burning. "Alright. Let's all take a step a back. No one wants this to get ugly. We came here to talk. You found it, you called us here, you needed us. So I suggest you calm the hell down, and stop pissing off the only people who can help you!"

Silence greeted his outburst. 

"Listen to him, Sherlock." John told him quietly. 

Sherlock swallowed, then exhaled in a trembling breath. "I will take you to your phone box. There's nothing- I was drugged- I - there's nothing there. There can't be. It's not possible."

Sam exchanged a look with Dean. It was clear that this guys life was rooted in logic and knowledge- there was no space for the supernatural in his narrow thinking. 

"Okay." Sam said. "Just take us there."

"You could call for a cab." Sherlock said brashly. "I assume that's not beyond you." And there it was again: once the situation had been sorted, the hierarchy decided, Sherlock had to be in control. Dean started forward, but John skillfully stole between the two, subtly diffusing any tension.

"Just shut up, and show us the damn police box!" Sam snapped, his temper as frayed as Deans. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by John. 

"Christ Sherlock, that's enough!"

Clearly fighting himself, Sherlock pulled a scarf from the hook, and wrapped a trench coat around himself, letting the fabric billow out behind him. 

"Who does this guy think he is? Batman?" Dean muttered. Sam couldn't find it in himself to smile. 

They stepped out into the night: John, Sherlock, Dean and Sam. Sherlock had dismissed the others, who, bewildered, had stayed in the flat. Without question, John and Sherlock got in the back of the the rental- a beat-up Volvo, which Dean hated with every fibre of his being- and Sam took shotgun. They rode in silence. Dean had even turned off the metallica that had been pumping through the cars speakers. 

When they got there, Lansown road was empty. Yes, there was the odd shopper, bags clutched in pale fingers, faces shielded against the cold, hurrying along the cobbled pavements. There was the occasional cab, the black cars foreign to the Winchester's. There were the shops, open doors warm and inviting against the harsh wind carving through the streets. 

But there was no police box. 

Not even a phone booth. 

"Well this is crap." Sam said, kicking at a stray Pepsi can. 

"If you've brought us here as some kind of joke..." Dean threatened, fingering the knife on his belt. He wouldn't use it: not on a civvie, no matter how aggravating, but more as a scare tactic. 

John stiffened, and settled into an easily defensible position; Sherlock looked as unconcerned as if Dean had pulled out a toothpick. Despite himself, Sam was impressed. They didn't scare easy. 

"It's there." Sherlock pointed, sounding almost bored with the situation. He gestured vaguely towards a WHSmith. 

"What?"

"Dean." Sam interrupted. "Remember that book on Tardisian mythology I bought a few years ago-"

"Are you kidding? Of course not."

"Well, I did." Sam said impatiently. "And there's this perception filter thing-"

"Youre joking." Dean dead-panned. "Not only is there a magic space box that can travel through time, but it also has an invisibility cloak?"

Sam shrugged. 

"Oh, great."

Abruptly, Sherlock walked forwards: the Winchesters traded shrugs, and followed. As Sherlock reached out without a trace of hesitation, something odd happened. Something very, very odd. In Johns and the Winchester's vision, the world seemed to tilt, snapping between one plane and the next; the earth flickered, wrapping around every atom of that street, and twisting the molecules to make a small blue box, formed between one heartbeat and the next. 

Even Dean let out a low, impressed whistle. 

Sam remained still- ever the professional, but he was grinning, his delight shining through. 

John shook his head. "Never get used to that."

"There's nothing to get used to, John. Don't you get it, don't you understand? It's an illusion, it had to be." Sherlock said, spittle flying from his lips. He looked half-mad. "You have to be drugged, you-you-" His gaze flitted to the Winchester's. "Your past disturbed you, so you think you see paranormal when there are people, monsters where there are men. It doesn't exist. It can't."

"Sherlock." John said quietly. "I know that you think that everything has to follow these... rules. I thought so too, this basis of what is possible, and what is not. And I'm sorry Sherlock, but those rules don't exist. Not anymore. Give me the key."

When he didn't move, John let out a tut of annoyance, and pulled it from Sherlock's coat pocket. 

He pushed it into the lock, and despite the shoppers bustling around them, the gentle rainfall pattering across the cobblestone, the world around was utterly silent. 

He twisted the key, and gently pushed both doors open.

"Holy..." 

"Bloody hell."

Structures arcing across a room as tall as a cathedral. A glittering control panel. Walls swathed with golden light. 

Filled with wonder, Sam was the first to enter, letting his hand trail across a banister. 

Dean followed, a smile creeping across his face without permission. 

John came next, grinning like an idiot. He turned back, wanting to share this with Sherlock; only to find him still outside, head clutched between his hands. 

"Not possible, not possible." He muttered, over and over. John put an arm around him, and guided him towards the Tardis. 

"It is possible." Sam heard him say. "It's real, it's here."

Yet the moment Sherlock crossed the threshold, and his foot crossed the door, it slammed shut behind him. 

They all flinched, but weren't yet panicking. That came when the tube-thing in the centre, began to move, and a shrieking, wheezing sound emanated from it: grating, yet at the same time strangely beautiful. 

Like a ghost- in fact, to Sam and Dean, exactly like a ghost- a man in a patched suit, braces, and a red bow tie flickered into view. 

They jerked back, but it had already started speaking. 

"Protocol 394 enabled." It- he- said. "I have been captured, maybe Amy and Rory too. I don't know. I hope not. But the thing is- I need your help. A lot of people do. I sent the Tardis back to earth, because Sherlock- and I really hope you're there- only you could see through the perception filter. Only you could be that clever. Other than me I guess, but I'm kind of not there- bit of a bummer, really. I don't know what year it is, Tardis has been in a bit of a bad mood lately- ssh, stop that- so I programmed it so that you'll arrive about an hour after I did anyway. You might want to hold on." Seconds after he finished speaking, the entire room jolted, and he blinked out of sight. 

Simultaneously, they all lunged for the railing- apart from Sherlock, who John had to drag to the side. The wheezing increased in intensity, and sparks were thrown from a console. Sam looked up to make sure Dean was ok, then tried to shield his head with his hands- a natural self defence. As the room shook, the figure snapped into view again. 

"Oh, and Winchester's, do try not to kill anything before I get there!" He vanished again. 

Everything was very quiet as their surroundings stilled. Nobody dared move, for fear it would start again. Dean was the first to get to his feet, gingerly pressing a hand to the door. Sam followed, with John close behind, and dragging Sherlock after him. 

Sam staggered out, already half anticipating the sight that awaited them. They had moved, as easily as if they'd been taken by an angel, into a place composed of white. The Tardis had materialized in an alcove, which looked out onto a sort of aircraft hanger- it stretched out, seemingly for miles. Crafts that looked like they had just pulled from the set of Star Wars, twisted planes with jet streams for wings, bikes made of sleek turns of silver. 

"Holy crap." He got out. Dean turned to Sam. 

"Dude." He said. "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."


	7. We're All Mad Here || SPN/DW/LOCK

He had gone mad, John decided. Completely and utterly mad. As Sherlock said, this was completely, well, illogical. He could- with some stretch of the imagination- accept a box bigger on the inside. But it had moved from one place to another, with only the slightest tremor. And although John didn't know a lot about magic boxes, invisibility cloaks, or teleporting machines, he knew for damn sure he wasn't on the end of Lansown road in greater London. 

This was ridiculous. This was insane. This was brilliant. 

He was grinning reluctantly now, moving forward to a port like window. Distantly, he heard himself let out a choked gasp. 

"Oh, God."

"Guess again," The shorter of the two brothers came to clap a hand on his shoulder. "I've met his friends. They're kind of dicks."

The easy smile slipped from the guys features as he laid eyes on the phenomenon beneath them, and his hand fell loosely from John's shoulder. 

"Sam." He said in a low voice. "Come see this."

"What- holy crap."

They stood quietly for a second, just taking in the sight from the window. 

Sam spoke after a second of awed silence. "Even for us, this is whacked."

"Tell me about it." Dean agreed. He could barely believe it- okay, he was a hunter, of course he could-but still. 

A blue globe hung suspended in inky sky, seemingly glowing from the inside. John's eyes could just make out the slight movement as it revolved, probably at thousands of miles an hour, and the faded brush of the atmosphere, swathing the planet in a comforting blanket of white. Beyond the incandescence directly beneath him, it was impossibly dark, with the odd pinprick of light that he presumed were stars. 

"Sherlock?" He said distractedly over his shoulder. "Look at this. It's incredible. Absolutely amazing. Fantastic!"

"Okay, enough with the adjectives! We get it!" The shorter one snapped. John really had to think of a better nickname, because he was like six foot and towered over John. 

"Hey Dean, ease up. The guys a civvie, as vanilla as they get."

Whats-his-face- Dean?- shrugged, and stumped away from the window without casting a second glance back, and pulled a silver gun from his back pocket. John supposed he was meant to be intimidated. 

He cast a glance over the gun, and hid a smile. He'd fought with Americans who'd used the same firearm. 

"Colt." He said with no question in his voice. 

"What?" Dean replied, surprised.

"Colt. 45 millimetre, 7 rounds, single stacked magazine, holds an extra round in the chamber." 

Dean almost smiled as he replaced the gun in his waistband. "You know your stuff. Where'd you serve?"

"Afghanistan. Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Nice to meet you." There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice that he hoped Dean didn't notice.

Dean let out a half laugh. "Yeah, you too."

"So where do me and Sherlock fit into all this?" John asked. "I mean, Sherlock- once he'd finally figured out how to speak again- got a hold of some friends who owed him a favour or seven, who knew some people, who knew some people who had heard of you. A little digging, and few close calls while trying to hide this from Mycroft, and we got your number. We were out of our depth; we knew that. And suddenly we're in the bloody X-files. What the hell is going on?"

"You looked us up?" Deans was suddenly alarmed, his hand snapping back to his gun. 

John, confused for a second, shook his head. "No, Sherlock got in the first few minutes that you guys weren't those serial killers. Something about body language, or subconscious indicators- oh, I don't know, it's Sherlock."

Dean paused for moment, then shrugged, and relaxed a little, clearly impressed.

He looked at John thoughtfully. "So you believe in the paranormal- hell, man, we're in space, you don't really have a choice- but there's this guy. This alien, I guess you'd call him. And, me and my brother, we-"

He was abruptly cut off, as two figures barrels up the stairs leading to the hangar, panting hard. One was a redhead, with legs that John could appreciate a mile away. The other was the guy they had seen a projection of, minus the bow tie. 

The man ran straight past them, and went to hug the police box. 

"Oookay?" Dean ventured. "So you're the thousands of years old alien with the time travelling space ship? Gotta say man, love the ride."

"Who wouldn't? Oh, Winchester squared, I don't know how far along your timeline the Tardis landed, whether you've done Fengallen or Forwenich yet. Thanks for that rescue in Glasgow, by the way; nice timing. I'm not sure if you've had the fall of Emprium yet. I hope so, as this is going to be a little awkward if you haven't-" The Doctor turned, slowly, to find three guns aimed at his head. There was no way John was leaving the flat without his SIG- in fact, it had not left his pocket since they'd found the box. 

Sam had pulled his own gun, this one a slimmer Colt Paterson.

"Why did you bring us here?" He demanded, cocking the hammer back. 

"What do you want?" Dean said with quiet force. 

The Doctor, instead of looking troubled, sighed with irritation.

"I'd forgotten how much you Winchesters liked your guns. Put them down, I'm not going to hurt you." He swatted at the barrels, and grinned at John. 

"You must be John Watson! Nice to meet you, love meeting new people. Well, except for when they're trying to kill you: then they're just unpleasant."

"What do you want?" John reiterated, shifting his grip on the gun. 

The playfulness left the Doctor as swiftly as a mask being pulled off, and there was something sad and serious in his eyes. 

"Your help." He said with raw honesty.

John's gaze faltered. "My- what? Them I get-" He jerked a thumb in the direction of the Winchesters. "Supernatural experts, not messed at all by this- can I add a what the hell- but me and Sherlock, we've nothing to do with this."

The Doctor shook his head. "Only Sherlock could see through the perception filter. And I might have added a sub eistician adolope, so that he would know to contact the Winchesters. And, well." The Doctor smiled; a smile that, while containing a sharpness John was all too familiar with, was tinted with kindness. He could see it, in the edges of tenderness that curled his lips upward. "Where would Sherlock be without his blogger?"

John swallowed, shaking his head. "Fine." He said. "Fine." He squeezed closed his eyes for a second, then holstered the gun. Sam and Dean were slower to put their guns away, but reluctantly shoved them into the waistbands of their jeans. 

"So what do you need our help with then?" Sam asked. 

"I could explain it to you, but it would take time, and I probably couldn't explain anyway-"

"Try." Deans reply came hard and fast.

The Doctor sighed in frustration. "Trust you to make a fuss. Well, basic rundown then. I'm guessing from the whole trying to kill me thing, you don't know me yet, so I'm the Doctor, this is Amy Pond-"

The redhead waved awkwardly. "Helloo."

"And we are currently on a Rhakahalli spaceship, heading through the Fijarian constellation of Yumanital-"

"Enough with the fancy words! Just tell us what the damn problem is!"

The Doctor exhaled, then slumped against a wall. "There is an ancient ritual, formed many thousands of millennia ago. It can only be performed every nine hundred thousand years, on the last night of Luminati- a period of time in Fijari custom-"

"Let me guess." Dean interrupted. "Thats tonight."

"You are good, aren't you?"

"Nope. Just been doing this gig for far, far too long."

"Right, well, this ritual requires a human sacrifice-"

"Oh, don't they all?"

"Dean that's enough. This ritual-"

"Calm down Grandpa-"

"Dean!"

"Fine." Dean did not relax, muscles held poised.

"This ritual... it's madness. Utter madness. I never thought anyone would ever even attempt it, other wise-"

"You say a lot." Sam said, completely calm. "You use big words, to dress up what you really mean, and distract us from the truth." He watched the Doctor for a second, then continued talking. "Its because it scares you, doesn't it? The truth?"

The Doctor flicked a half-smile in his direction. 

"I'd forgotten how quick you could be, Sam. Once you get past the whole gun thing, I mean. Yes, this ritual... it's blood science, very advanced. In a way, I guess, it's a bomb. A very dangerous one."

"Aren't most bombs?"

The Doctor continued as he hadn't heard Dean. 

"It uses human blood- one person, completely drained. Then well, this is where it gets complicated. Because of the gravitational potential of this planet, a drained human, matched with the right words said at the right time, causes a sort of chain reaction. It's like picking a lock."

The Doctor took a deep breath. "Now this is where it gets really complicated. There is a padlock- a combination lock, if you like, and each star is a number. Now millions of years ago, there was this creature. Immensely powerful, it was a spirit animal- it existed in conscious thought only. Loki, I think you call it in your culture. A God of lies. It can get into people's heads, twist their thoughts. Centuries ago, he was caught, bound by his brother, Thor. Thor's gone now, unfortunately, killed in a flying ferret race. He always was reckless." The Doctor said sadly.

"Wait a second." Dean said, utterly serious. "You mean we're fighting the Avengers? Is Steve Rogers going to save the day?"

The Doctor blinked. "Who?"

"It's... never mind. So, God of lies who, I guess, is the creature locked in this star constellation, gets out, and then what?"

The Doctor met their eyes square on. "It makes your apocalypse look like a skirmish in the playground."

"Oh how cheerful."

"Yes, that was the good news. Bad news is, they've got my friend. We arrived at a bad time for them, and I think they're going to try and use Rory for the sacrifice. It's not going to happen. I'm not going to let it. The moment I realized what this was, I called for backup. The Fijari, I've met them before. We were friends, once, maybe in the future. I've done bad things in my life, you might as well know that. Destroyed civilizations, wiped planets off the map. I've always had reasons. Sometimes, in my head, I can almost justify them."

There was not a hint of the childish humour previously present in the Doctors eyes.

"The long and short of it is that there's this prophecy, about the Kholde Lumin; about the Distant Star- that's what they call me. And Fijarians own nearly eighty percent of this galaxies real estate. If it became known that they were helping break Loki from his cage, there would be anarchy. And I'm not a hundred percent sure they know what their doing. He might be controlling them, whispering through the veil, on this night, the only night he could be freed. And soon he will be, and he will wreak havoc on the universe, unless we stop him."

"And we've got to save Rory." The redhead interjected, not looking half as shocked as she should.

"Yes, that's first on my ridiculously long to-do list."

"Wait." Sam said. "What about this prophecy?"

The Doctor bit his lip, and looked away from them. "I can't save you. That's it. All of it. I can't save you. I've been warned by the Catha. And if I can't save you, that means I can't save the three million planets below. I needed- need- help."

"Great." Sam said. "I guess this is where we come in?"

The Doctor nodded, and through it all, John wondered if he was currently locked in a psych ward, and was hallucinating. It made more sense. 

He barely heard Sam speak; the world around him was fluctuating, until everyone seemed to be shouting. 

"So," The Doctor said, and somehow, despite everything, a flicker of a grin had made its way onto his face. "Ready to save the world?"

Sam smiled wryly. "It's a hobby of ours."

Everything was very quiet again. John backed up, and felt his back hit the Tardis door. He pushed it open, and saw Sherlock, who had taken a glimpse at the impossibility outside, and gone into meltdown. John knew how he felt. 

He sat next to him without saying anything, and put his head in his hands. He managed to meet Sherlock's red rimmed eyes, and they were wild and feral. All that Sherlock was; logic and tapped out letters, rationality and crisp black letters against a screen, was bare to see. Even the parts that only John had ever laid eyes on; the desperation and scrawled handwriting, anguish and ink blots against the raw first draft. All, all, had been torn to pieces in the Doctor's gentle hands. 

John struggled to find words, but failed, and sat in silence instead. 

"Not... possible..." Sherlock was murmuring. 

John rubbed furiously at his face, then leaned back against the seat. 

"I know, Sherlock." He said. "I know."


	8. Half-Baked Disaster || DW/SPN

"So." Dean said. "Plan?"

"Um... save universe." Sam suggested. "Stop bad guys."

"Thank you for that thought out, meaningful contribution."

"No problem."

Dean rolled his eyes, then half turned to the Doctor. "Well then, fashion disaster, what's our game plan?"

The Doctor smiled. "What he said."

~~~

They alternated between running and walking, as they dodged the Fijarians, and made their way round the ship. They didn't have to kill anyone, the Doctor told them with force. Absolutely no killing required. Just disabling the main frame, and getting the hell out of there. 

John and Sherlock had stayed in the Tardis. It was better, the Doctor had decided, for all of them, and Sam was inclined to agree. They weren't built for this stuff. 

"You know." Sam said as they swung around yet another white corner. "All this running would be so much easier if we knew where we were running to."

"Running." Any huffed. "Finding Rory."

"Where, though?"

"Back of the ship." The Doctor supplied. "That's where they keep the eternity chambers."

"Why can't you call them something nice?" Dean grumbled. "Sleepy pods. Dream boats. Buuut no, it's all eternity chambers and Yumanital constellation. Couldn't you make them a little more cheerful?"

"I'm sorry, would you prefer chamber designed to drag out life in all its agony, using ancient torture methods to drive the victim mad? No, no neither do I, and that's what's happening to my friend." There was an awful intensity to his words. 

"He'll be fine, right, Doctor?" Amy soothed with a little conviction. "We'll make it. We always do."

The Doctor threw a troubled half smile in her direction. "Course Pond. When do we not?"

Perhaps it was only because he had grown up with Dean that he could see it, Sam thought. He was used to seeing beyond smiles and blow off comments; he lived with a guy who treated life like it was a joke, yet seemed to think he didn't deserve the punchline. Dean and Sam had been through a lot, too much for their short lives, but they knew they had nothing compared to the Doctor. Because behind easy smiles and a laid back attitude, Sam thought the Doctor was the saddest man he'd ever met. 

~~~

The first Fijarian that caught them, Dean nailed in the head within a second. 

"Dude, no killing, remember?"

"Oh." Dean said, looking as if he'd accidentally ordered a latte instead of a cappuccino. "Oops."

The Doctor had gone ahead, to check out a junction with Amy, and would be back any second. Sam used his toe to shove the alien from the centre of the corridor, pushing it to the side tentatively, so as to avoid getting blue alien blood on his shoes. 

"That's just nasty."

They hurried along, without pausing to look back. Although the Doctor was still a stranger, they knew exactly how he'd react to the body they'd already dropped.

"Man, this whole don't kill anyone thing sucks." Dean complained. "How are we meant to sneak into an alien control room without killing anyone?"

"Did you remember the tranquilizers?"

"That was your job!"

"You were supposed to bring them!"

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

"Will you shut up!" Amy snapped, whirling around to face them, with a furious expression. "My husband is missing- trapped in some torture chamber, and you're bickering like schoolboys!" 

Feeling exactly like a shamed schoolboy, Sam held his hands in the air, and inclined his head.

"Message received." He said.

"Loud and clear." Dean added. Once she turned her back, he and Sam pulled identical faces at each other, then hurried to catch up. 

They didn't bother wasting time feeling guilty about the next three Fijarians they ganked- clean shots too, bullets buried in gnarled skulls. The rarely used silencers had been pulled from their jacket pockets- this was a stealth attack, after all. 

They weathered the Doctor's anger in near silence, unable to believe him. It was just as the Doctor was accusing them of murder, that Dean's silence broke. 

"We are attacking an enemy base, to prevent the end of the universe. You getting that? End of the damn universe, not a broken finger nail, or sprained ankle. And mind control, or no mind control, those ugly mofo's would have raised the alarm, and our little rescue mission would have gone ka-poot. Your forgetting we aren't utterly useless in this situation- we've done a little world saving ourselves. So, yeah, I'm sorry we don't have tranquilizers, and I'm sorry we can't all sit around and make friendship bracelets, but we have a job to do. And if there's another way to do it, feel free to make a suggestion."

Sam winced internally. They were all thinking it, but Dean really lacked a little something called tact.

Dean glared at the Doctor. The Doctor glared right back.

Amy forced her way between the two, anger lining her face. "I swear, you can smell the testosterone. Doctor; Rory. You guys; Rory. Priorities, people!"

The Doctor nodded in response to her words, anger fading, or at least hidden for her sake, being placed in a box to be taken out and assessed later. 

"Alright. No shooting. It's around the next corner. I'll talk to them, make them understand. See if I can distract them if nothing else. Get Rory out. Try not to hurt them, I'm not sure they know who they're serving, what they're doing, but whatever you do, you must get Rory out."

"Okay." Amy nodded, determined, and more at ease now she had a solid plan.  

The Doctor shot her a gappy grin in an attempt at encouragement, then, casual as you like, sauntered around the corner. The Winchesters listened to his enthusiastic greetings in disbelief: he preached peace, an anomaly in this world of violence. It was one of those things that was so crazy it might just work. It was a little less grand as the light guns started firing, and the Doctor danced back around the corner.

"Okay." He said. "Not mind control. Just evil." 

Dean covered Sam as they immediately started forward, methodically taking out one Fijarian after the other as they advanced.

"No killing!" The Doctor shouted in a panic from behind them. Dean rolled his eyes, but grudgingly began aiming for limbs, in an attempt at sparing the lives of those he targeted. He didn't worry too much if he missed. 

"Enough! Stop hurting them-!" The Doctor pushed his way forward, but it was already too late. Sam scoped round, making sure all the Fijarians had been dropped as Dean pulled his lock pick from his back pocket, and worked it into the keyhole. There was an odd warbling sound, and the it clicked quickly open. He looked up to see the Doctor, pocketing a slim device: gold edged with white. His face was thunderous as he looked around the graveyard in which they stood. Somehow, he kept his silence. 

He and Amy had joined them, already frantically  pulling at the door. It caught on something, then opened with a thud. Sam backed away as a figure fell out- tall and thin, in a clean blue shirt, paired with baggy jeans with a single tear in the hem. There was a nasty lump on his head, a mosaic of blue and black. Possible concussion, but it had only been there a few hours, max. Sam had had enough of those to know. He'd probably gotten it when they'd thrown him in. 

The Doctor pulled out that device thing again, and it glowed a sharp green as he waved it over the guy- Rory?- and flicked it up as if to get some sort of reading. 

"Oh not good, very not good." He said to no one in particular. Amy had both hands on Rory's cheeks, fingers clutching at his skin. 

"Rory? Rory, look at me!" His eyes were vacant and unseeing; looking at her, yes, but not seeing. 

"Not real." He murmured. "You're not real..."

"It's me, you idiot!" Amy demanded, tears in her voice. "Doctor, what have they done to him? Fix it!" At his silence, she looked up, suddenly vulnerable. "You can fix it, can't you?"

The Doctor bit his lip: he looked so much more the child he had acted only half an hour before. "I don't don't... I don't know. Maybe. Hopefully. Look, he's alive, that's what matters. Let's get him back to the Tardis, and take it from there." 

Amy managed a nod, and holding him as if he were made of porcelain, she placed an arm around Rory's shoulders, and gently pulled him to his feet. 

"You had to go and get yourself trapped." Sam heard her whispering softly. "You idiot." 

Dean got to his feet as the Doctor darted after them- he seemed as worried as Amy. 

"Oh wait!" The Doctor twisted to face them, and his shoulders fell at the site of the dead or incapacitated Fijarians. He seemed to will himself to ignore them, and not hold the bitterness in his eyes as he looked at the Winchester's. 

"Me and Amy will get Rory to the Tardis. I'm not taking you- to be honest, I don't even want to look at you, after what you just did. But we've only got half an hour, and I won't to be able to stop what happens next. The ritual begins at midnight, and finishes at exactly one. They kill the sacrifices first, then perform the incantation at precisely one o'clock. So get to the main control room- it's literally turn right every corner. When you get to the mainframe, give it a blast with the sonic. It's not great, but better than that half-baked disaster that you just performed." He hesitated, giving the device a fond glance, then tossed it in Sam's direction. Sam caught it easily, then turned it curiously in his fingers. 

"What is it?" He had to ask. 

The Doctor opened his mouth to answer, then seemed to stop himself. He shrugged, open palmed. "Sonic beep beep. Computer boom." Sam let out a scoff, but did not question further, and pocketed the thing. 

"Not as cool as psychic paper- any identity in the known universe- but still." Sam and Dean exchanged alert glances. 

"When you get back, you'll need this. Now you lot and I- we've been through a lot together, even if it hasn't happened to you yet, and I'm trusting you here. I think I gave you one before, when you got me out in Glasgow, but for now... take this." He threw something at Dean, who fished it from the air and held it up to reveal a key, glinting in the low light.

"I don't give that to just anybody, so you better give it back." Then, despite his obvious smouldering anger, and unwilling resentment, he managed to flash them a quick smile, before turning on one heel, and darting after the others. 

The guy was so ridiculously nice, Sam thought, that it was going to kill him one day. 

~~~

They turned right as the Doctor said, and only had to drop two Fijarians. They didn't like doing it- the same way they didn't enjoy going back to finish off the others they'd only injured in the rescue mission.  But if they'd raised the alarm, any attempt to get off this damn ship would be utterly useless. And whether the Doctor liked it or not, the universe came before the creatures trying to kill them. 

It is then that Dean saw them, through a hallway to the left, escorted by half a dozen Fijarians. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the scraps that used to be people; pitifully thin, with concave cheeks, dressed in the barest rags. Their hair was lank and greasy, and two of them were crying. The third, a girl, was staring straight ahead, eyes unseeing. He nudged Sam, and a hand goes to the gun at his waist. As he moved, he caught sight of his watch. Only twenty minutes till midnight. 

"I'll get the hostages." Dean hissed. "You get to the control room." 

Sam nodded, then kept going right.

Dean moved slowly closer, using the walls for cover. What were they even- of course. Dean thought bitterly. They didn't know we were going to show up. These were the original sacrifice. There were four Fijarians escorting them, but they needn't have bothered. Dean could see it in their hollow eyes: there was no spark there, no light, no hope. Dull rage chasing through him, Dean favoured his pistol, finding it easier to manoeuvre. 

The first bullet slammed into a Fijarian skull, taking it out with one easy hit. The second crashed into an arm, spinning it around until the third finished it off. The fourth struck its chest: he presumed it touched the heart. The fifth went wide, as the last Fijarian standing had lunged behind cover. Dean ducked as a bolt of light flashed over his shoulder, then span, and delivered the sixth bullet into the things brain. 

He barely paused, slotting a new clip in, then sprinting towards the hostages. They shied away, clearly afraid. One whimpered aloud. Dean held his hands up in a peaceful gesture, then edged slowly closer.

"It's okay." He said softly, offering his hand. "You're safe now. I'm going to get you out. There's a magic machine that can take you home. We'll go there, and we'll see your families again, ok?" 

The girl nodded hesitantly, then slipped her hand into his. He gestured for the others to follow, but one shivered on unsteady legs and tumbled to the ground without the others to support him. Dean picked him up, resting against his hip. The boy weighed nearly nothing- just a mix of sharp bones protruding through pale skin. The girl on the other side grips hard on Dean's leg. He manoeuvres and picks her up too, not seeing any other option. 

If course, it is then a troop of Fijarians come around the corner. All wielding guns. All firing, a hailfire of red light. All aiming for the defenceless children he held in his arms. He couldn't fight back, the kids might be caught in the cross fire. The only thing he could do was run. He scooped up the last child and clutched him tight against his chest. On their own, they wouldn't be fast enough. 

He sprinted the length of the hallway, shielding the children, and praying to Cas that the thick width of his shoulders would be enough to protect them. He inhaled a sharp breath as a red beam of light traced its fiery path across his calf, the sizzle of his own flesh meeting his ears. Staggering, he bent over sideways as he twisted, just managing to keep his feet. He kept running. 

He had never been so relieved to see something that included the word police when he arrived at the hangar. He barely dared put the girl down, but fumbled the key from around his neck and urgently slotted it in, slamming the door open with his shoulder, and ushering the kids in at the same moment. 

He kicked the door shut behind them- it didn't matter that he'd lost the aliens a few junctions ago; nothing was hurting these kids. The Doctor was standing at the console, muscles tense. Dean could just see Amy, crouched next to Rory. He seemed to be talking, at least. 

The children looked around, wide eyed at the Tardis.

"It's... bigger... on the inside..." The girl got out. The Doctor bounded over, and knelt at eye level, suddenly animated. 

"There's a swimming pool in the back too" He said with a hint of a grin. "If you're good, there's a slide too." 

The girl smiled then, showing off the teeth she didn't have. Seeing this, Dean sat her gently at one of the airport-like seats attached to a wall of the Tardis. 

"You just rest." He told her. She nodded, and Dean tenderly lifted the other two to join her. "Look after each other, okay guys?" They nodded again, until the boy; the one who could barely walk, lunged forward and gripped tight onto the material of Dean's shirt in a frail hug.

"Thank you." He mumbled in a choked voice. Dean slowly worked free his fingers from the fabric, and knelt to look at him.

"No problem. I'm Dean. What's your name?" He said it as gently as he could, not wanting to frighten him. 

"I don't know... I can't... I don't... remember." At this, Dean was abruptly furious. The Doctor could defend these aliens all he wanted; he was one of them, after all. But a child, no more than six years old, had been tortured to the point he couldn't remember his own name, by monsters no one should have to bare the sight of. Dean knew then with cold certainty that he was going to end each and every one of them. The Doctor too, if he protested.  He faked nonchalance for the kid, and ruffled his hair. 

"I'm just gonna get my brother, and then we'll get you home." The kid managed a trembling smile, and Dean felt rage wash over him anew. No child should be put through this. 

He stalked from the Tardis, gun already out, finger on the trigger. He no longer feared a meeting with the Fijarians. Instead, he craved it. He was going to make them pay. 

"Dean, wait!" He heard the Doctor call. Frustrated, he turned to face him. 

"What?" He spat. "Are you going to tell me not to hurt them, they haven't done anything wrong? That I'm a monster for killing the things that tortured children to the point they couldn't remember their own names, tortured your friend to the point he didn't recognise his own wife? It's that what you stand for, Doctor?" He twisted the word, made it a mockery. 

"Of course not! I stand for the victims, but I didn't know- I swear, I didn't know."

"Yeah." Dean said. "Whatever you say E.T-"

Afterwards, he would be ashamed of himself for not seeing it coming. But in that instant, all he was aware of was something connecting with the back of his head, an awful darkness blanketing his vision, and the vague sensation of forgotten dreams.


	9. Mornin' Boys || SPN/DW

Dean came to sharply, as if someone had thrown ice water over him. He gasped himself into consciousness, blinking as the the world around him solidified. 

He let out a huff of irritation, as he felt the cuffs tying him to a chair, then a quiet moment of jubilation as he felt the edge he was tied to. Workable. Definitely workable. His hopes lessened as he saw the Fijarian tying an almost conscious Doctor up on a seat opposite Dean. Crowing as he realized Dean was awake, the gnarled face slid closer to him, mottled skin twisted in a grotesque parody of a smile.

"Dude, your breath stinks." Dean told it, trying to keep it occupied as he worked his bindings up and down the edge cutting into his palms. 

"There's no need to be rude!" The Doctor slurred from across the room. Dean almost laughed. 

"No, rude will be when I rip the suckers heart out." He said calmly, forcing his numb fingers to keep working on his restraints. 

Although the Tardis was on the other side of the ship, Dean somehow understood every word the creature spoke. 

"You will stop struggling-eef you value yours brothers life."

Dean was suddenly very, very still. Sam was still in the control room. He told himself. He was safe. Unless they'd found him. Unless they wanted him to be part of their sick ritual.

"What have you done with my brother?" He spoke with rigid control, each word forced through gritted teeth. 

The thing made a sound that was almost a laugh. 

"Yous thought yous could sneak onto our base- our base- and we would not notice?" 

"What have you done with my brother?" Dean hissed, attempting to contain the rage trying to consume him. And there was something else- something else he was trying so desperately not to give into. That dark, dark fear, a razor edge of all his thoughts. 

The thing smiled- or as close as to a smile as it could manage. 

"You've been quite lucky, Dean Winchester. What is it yous say? You'd have been given a... reprieve? Now I don't like you. You killed my friends, and for that, I would kill yous. But seeing how much you... care-" his voice twisted the word, turning it into a mockery. "I think it would hurt you more if instead of cutting yous up- it's your precious Sammy's blood we use to fuel the death of millions. Poetic, don't you think?  
At midnight, the ritual will begin. That is in less than three minutes. Now, I would let yous watch, but, unfortunately, I think of I let yous out of your restraints, yous would be slightly unpleasant. However- I'll see if I can't gets us a radio- wouldn't want us to miss the show!" 

Dean's every muscle was tensed, fingers futilely clawing at the plastic cuffs, desperation rearing its ugly head. 

"You lay one finger on my brother I'll kill you! I'll kill all-" The rest of his words were muffled as a fist slammed into his cheekbone with the force of a sledge hammer. He gasped out, choking back a cry as something in his jaw crunched, and a bolt of pain jolted through him. 

"Ssh." The creature crooned with mock tenderness, even as it fumbled a radio from its pocket, and set about tuning it. 

Keep cool, Dean. You can't help Sammy like this.

"It won't work, you know." Dean called with false confidence. 

Why weren't his damned restraints loose by now? 

"Sam's too good a hunter to be caught like this-"

God dammit, was this some sort of extra terrestrial duct tape?

"You've no chance, not against Sam-"

Come on, please-

"Oh do shut up." The alien rolled his eyes- or as near as Dean could tell, and stuffed a gag between his lips. 

"Thirty seconds till midnight... make a wish, Dean Winchester." 

Dean pushed again at his bonds, unable to think beyond the panic engulfing him. He could just make out the doctors frantic voice, promising demented E.T another way, a better way. Dean ignored him as thoroughly as the aliens, and envisioned forcing an angel blade through his captors throat. 

"Twenty."

The alien placed the radio next to Dean's head, and let the sound trickle into the room. Muffled scuffling, with an odd background noise Dean could not identify. And just beyond that- Sam's voice, the words indecipherable. Panic tore at Dean, hidden behind his cold exterior.

"Ten." Was this really how it was going to end, after all they'd done, all they'd been through? Too far for their souls to reach the earth, among the stars, beyond the reach of their angels?

"Five.." Despite it all, Dean was still hoping for a miracle. Cas. Crowley. Anyone. Sammy-

"Three..."

No! Not like this please not like this oh god Sammy-

"One..." 

A gunshot split the air, and static crackled across the line. And Dean knew that his brother was dead. 

He went mad. Thrashing against his bindings, he screamed out, a guttural cry tearing from his throat, fists lashing out. He was barely aware of the plastic restraints snapping before his hands were wrapped around the creature throat, pushing, crushing, until there was a faint twist, and the things body moved no more beneath him. 

The world around him washed in red, he barely remembered what happened next. He thought he slashed through the Doctor's bindings- or did he leave him behind?- he'd snatched up a gun somewhere along the way and he was running. Breath coming in fast pants. Fear-fuelled adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Feet striking the floor in a rhythm as steady as a heartbeat. 

And that sick feeling in his gut, fear clawing at his throat, and the pain that rocked through his body. Sam, Sam, Sam. The word had become his very heartbeat, hammering its tattoo against his skin. And yet it had always been there, hadn't it? That dread, that worry embedded into the foundation of all that Dean was, all he could ever be. Sam, his Sammy, holding him together and tearing him apart. 

He thought he heard footsteps behind him: he whirled with the gun, but relaxed slightly as he realized it was the Doctor. He kept the gun raised. 

"What do you want?" The word were spat like poison. 

The Doctor lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. "Dean... I'm sorry about your brother, I really am. But-"

"Don't say that!" Dean shouted. "He's not dead, he's not-" His voice broke, and an ugly lump rose in his throat. He squeezed closed his eyes, and concentrated on breathing for a minute. 

He exhaled roughly, then yanked the gun upright from where it had fallen limp in his arms. "Get between me and my brother and I'll kill you." He said quietly. 

Despite Dean's threats, the doctor just looked... sad. Sad, with an odd edge of his own loneliness. 

The Doctor rocked back on his heels: letting Dean go.

In the next second Dean was running again. 

If Sam had gotten free, where would he have gone? Not back to the control room, they'd already made him there. The Tardis? John and Sherlock would still be there, if John had managed to repair the mumbling wreck that had been Sherlock the last time Dean had seen him. If he'd returned, and they hadn't been there though... maybe he would have stayed put. Dean thought half heartedly. But it was Sam, and as far as Sam knew, Dean had been captured, and there was a knife at his throat- if Sam was still- he was- then he would have headed to wherever Dean was. 

But there was a hundred tunnels in this twisting rabbit warrren. They could have passed each other, and neither would even know it. Dean stalled to a stop, his feet slowing, and his harsh breathing suddenly the only sound in this silent prison. 

He didn't know what to do.


	10. Violent Tendencies || SPN/LOCK

Sam writhed as the Fijarians went to restrain his legs, and managed to connect one flailing foot with an alien's- was that a nose?

He wriggled to his feet, and struggled into a fighting stance, hands still bound in front of him. His gaze darted to his gun, left carelessly on a counter. Soaked in blue blood, it was almost unrecognizable. 

The Fijarians had Dean and the Doctor, Sam knew that for sure. Once he'd disabled the computer, he'd headed back to the Tardis, only to be informed by an alarmed Amy that Dean and the Doctor had just gone to find him. The supposed sacrifices were safe- Amy had them taken to a bedroom so they could get some rest. 

Gambling a glance at his watch, determination filled Sam. One minute to midnight.He could still save Dean, stop that knife plunging into his heart, stop his blood splashing onto black ink. He had to. 

Star combination. The seals. Everything, everything resting on their shoulders. Time slipping between his hands. Sam shook his head, refocusing. Not this time. He promised himself. It would be different this time. 

One of the Fijarian pulled a gun and let loose a bolt of light in Sam's direction. He dove out of the way, then threw himself at the alien, his entire body mass slamming into it. They both fell, the alien letting out a grunt as it did. Sam rode its body to the ground, and had braced himself by the time he slapped down. He scrambled to his feet, and managed to tear the gun from its grip. He had killed the other two aliens in moments. 

With a knee pushed against the Fijarian's chest, he experimentally fired it, pointing vaguely at the creatures leg. The blaze bored straight through flesh with the smallest sizzle, pure light ripping through cartilage as easily as paper. 

"Where is my brother?" He spat out through the blood in his mouth, teeth bared in a snarl. 

"I...don't knows..." The thing mumbled. Anger tore through Sam, fuelled by a keen edge of fear. It could be seconds before the ritual began. 

His foot lashed out, and he twisted, crushing its wound beneath his boot. The sound it made was nothing near human. 

"Near... your ship... the... hanger." It got out between laboured pants. Sam spared it one last disdainful glance, then pocketed the gun. He had just flung open the door when he noticed the scalpel, lying neglected on the counter beside his colt. He froze as the connotations of this hit him. They weren't going to use Dean for the ritual. They were planning on using him. Which meant Dean might still be alive. 

Newfound hope surging through him, he ran, heading back the way they had came, hesitant hope and fear fighting within him. He pushed them both aside, and kept running. 

Before, when they had rescued Rory, it had taken them nearly an hour to circumnavigate the ship. Sam made it in just over ten minutes. 

The hangar was utterly silent when he arrived, breath coming in fast pants, lungs aching. The aircraft stood like gravestones, marking and mourning the friends he'd perhaps already lost. 

He needed to find Dean, he needed to get the Doctor, and he needed to force him to get out of here. He, he, he. Where the hell was everyone else? Where was the stupid smartass of a detective, and the backup with the gun when you needed them? Where was Amy, where was the Doctor?

Sam pulled his gun, banishing the pathetic thoughts from his mind. They didn't have time for this.  

He circled the vehicles, distrusting the quiet. Where were the aliens? The sacrificial alters? 

There was a small chamber just off the hangar, with a dead Fijarian in the doorway, and what looked like a broken neck. Sam could only exhale with relief as he caught sight of the limp restraints, and what was clearly Dean's handy work lying in front of him. 

There was another set of cuffs, also broken on the other side of the room. Sam guessed this was where the Doctor had been tied down. Sam ticked off everyone in his mind. Amy and Rory were safe, the three hostages were in the Tardis, John and Sherlock had probably never left. He had to find Dean and the Doctor, then get the hell out of dodge. 

He moved back into the hangar, then made his way past a series of sleek motorbikes, taking a second to appreciate them. A noise rang out behind him. He whirled; gun raised, muscles tense. His finger jumped on the trigger, but he pulled up at the last second in time to avoid putting a bullet in the Doctor. 

"Sam! Not dead! Brilliant!" The Doctor was grinning like an idiot as he ducked under a wrong of an aircraft. Eyebrows raised, Sam kept moving forward, and wondered how the Doctor had survived an entire millennia. 

"Where's Dean?"

"Looking for you. Probably going to make his way back here once he realizes the control room is a bust-"

Sam clamped his hand over the Doctor's mouth, yanking him under cover as he did. 

"Incoming!" He hissed in his ear. The Doctor nodded slowly, and Sam released him. They both cautiously peered over one aircraft, only to see at least seven Fijarians advancing towards where Dean had been kept, cloistered in a tight circle. Sam couldn't see what was in the middle. 

"Ah crap." He muttered as he reloaded. Six bullets.

"For once, my sentiments precisely." The Doctor said from beside him. "You're the pro on hostage situation... ideas always appreciated."

Sam shrugged, then did a double take. "Wait... hostage?"

The Doctor's voice was grim. "Take another look." Sam turned to get another glance, and almost swore aloud. Instead of prisoners, they had more Fijarians, clapped on chains. 

The Doctor suddenly stiffened, quick eyes darting from side to side. "Oh you stupid slow brain!" He hissed, seemingly to himself. 

"What?" The Doctor met Sam's inquisitive eyes, his own gaze indecipherable. 

"What?"

"There's more than one sort of ritual." He said slowly. "One is of innocents- the children Dean rescued. The other is of blood traitors. Murderers. If they drain three blood traitors, it works the same as human blood."

"So operation save evil monsters?"

"Yep. Except this one needs to be done in the parts, all over the ship. Three points of a triangle, if you like. There's no way we can reach all of them, and if even one ritual goes right, Loki will be released, and that's one conversation I really could do without."

"You know." Sam said casually, kneeling to unzip his bag. "You're lucky me and Dean have such violent tendencies." He pulled the C4 from his duffel. The Doctor took in the sight, then shook his head vehemently. 

"Not on my watch. Another way, without bloodshed."

Sam shrugged, and began splitting the block, and pulling detonators from the side pockets. 

"Good luck with that one."

"We have to save-"

"No way." Sam got to his feet. "You brought us here to save the universe, because you couldn't. And this is why. You will always think there's a better way, but there isn't. Not this time. You couldn't wipe out an entire spaceship, with some innocents on board, purely because they're innocents, and you would want there to be some miracle. You can't save them." The Doctor shook his head fiercely. 

"There's a better way, there's always a better way-"

"Kholde lumin. Distant star. That is what you have to be."

The Doctor met his earnest eyes for second, then smiled, fierce and bright. "Never."

"Jesus, you're stubborn." Sam sighed to himself, as he pushed in another detonator. "Fine, then. Compromise. I find Dean, set the C4. You do your suicide, everyone braid each other's hair, please don't start the end of the universe thing. If they say no, we set a timer, then run like hell." 

The Doctor seemed very old, and very, very sad as he rested his eyes on the explosive. "A choice."

"Yes."

"...no killing unless necessary?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Sam nodded, relieved a decision had been made, then carefully placed the C4 back in his duffel, watching the wires as he did. He didn't wait to hear the Doctor's enthusiastic welcome behind him, but began running the opposite direction. There should be enough for five charges. He attached one over a door, then found himself not needing wires. The Doctor had done some outer space crap, and they seemed to be joined by some invisible, endless thread. He didn't question it, but moved onto the next charge. 

He was pacing down the next hallway, this one lined with doors leading to what looked like a operating theatres, when one of the doors was pushed open, and five Fijarians trailed out. Sam glanced wildly around, but there was nowhere to take cover. He bit back a cry as a ray of light stabbed into his arm, but kept a grip of his gun, and returned fire, picking out eyes and brains and hearts, firing until the gun clicked uselessly in his hand, and yet still two Fijarians remained. 

He leant into a fighting stance regardless, and threw himself at the remaining aliens. He didn't get far. One ray of light pierced his upper forearm, the other glanced over his shoulder, each leaving red in their wake. Distantly, Sam realized he was crying out, but the rest of him didn't care. He lunged at the monsters, trying to get ahold of a gun, but was batted aside almost carelessly. It is just as the other was advancing on him, defenceless against the wall, that two shots rang out, one after the other. Twinned bodies fell, Fijarian torsos collapsing against Sam's chest. He gasped out a relieved breath, then shoved them off of him in one heaved movement. He looked up, expecting to see Dean, already running to help. 

John stood at the end of the corridor, gun outstretched, unflinching. 

"Thanks man." Sam got out. John nodded, then his concern faded, replaced by clinical precision as he approached. 

"Only second degree burns, hasn't pierced muscle or blood vessels." He said professionally as he surveyed Sam's arm. "Skin should repair itself. You'll be fine." He hauled Sam to his feet, then grabbed two charges from the bag. "I'll get these. Sherlock saw you grab the bag, and put two and two together. You get the east side, I'll take the other." Business-like once more, Sam nodded, then picked up the duffel. 

"Tardis, ten minutes max." He said. John nodded, then took a right turn, while Sam went left. Before he did though, he picked up a light-ray gun. Not as agile, maybe, as his gun, but it had ammunition, and that was better than nothing. 

He set the other two charges, housing them just inside doorways, tucking in the detonators as to make them invisible, then glanced at his watch. Quarter to one. Fifteen minutes. 

He met John at the Tardis as planned, sweaty and exhausted, but satisfied with their work. 

"We clear?"

"Yeah. Let's get the hell out of here." They clattered into the Tardis, relieved to finally be out of there. The Doctor stood at the console, head bowed. 

"They go for peace on earth?" Sam asked, already knowing the answer. The Doctor shook his head slowly. 

"Surprise, surprise." John sniped, as he went to sit beside where Sherlock sat, fingers massaging his temples. 

"Set for ten minutes." Sam told the Doctor quietly. "We should go."

The Doctor didn't respond. 

The next thing either of them knew, John's gun was in his hand. 

"I'm sorry." He said. "I am. But the universe comes above one ship-"

"Shut up." Sam interrupted suddenly, fresh panic flowing through him. 

"What? You? But we need to get away-"

"Doctor." Sam said, pulling a slim pistol from his bag. A small devil's trap was carved into the handle. 

"I'm giving you one chance to answer this. And you better be honest. Where the HELL is my brother?"


	11. Winchester Airlines || SPN

The blood had drained from the Doctor's face. 

"I said... He was looking for you. There was a radio- we heard the Fijarians- he thinks you're dead-" 

Sam felt dread wash over him. "Oh you idiot." He murmured to himself. "Oh you stupid, stupid idiot."

Struggling to focus, he rubbed a hand over his forehead, then snapped into action. 

"Right. We've got just under ten minutes before this station blows. If me and Dean aren't back, you go without us, understand?"

"Well, we're not going to just leave you-" 

"Everyone here will die if you don't!"

"I don't leave people behind-"

"Too damn bad." They were wasting time, precious seconds slipping away. Sam handed John his colt, hoping it would make the Doctor do as he wanted.

Sam left the Tardis, slamming the door behind him to try and emphasise his point, and started running. He didn't know where to. He vaguely headed in the direction of his prison, thinking Dean might have gone there. His feet slowed without permission, then he turned and sprinted in the other direction. Of course. If Dean thought Sam was injured, or even dead, he would have gone to wherever he had been anyway, if only to bring back his body. Crap. 

He was running, running faster than he had in a very long time, wheeling round one corner after another, fists pumping with desperation. He roasted the heart of a Fijarian before it had even pulled its gun. Seven minutes. He tore down another corridor, heart pounding frantically. He took out two more as he kept running, their own returned fire hitting the wall behind him. Six minutes. Around the next corner, he slammed into something so hard all the breath was forced from his body. He gasped out, and flailed for his gun, but then recognised the figure in front of him. 

Before he could react, Dean hugged him hard, fists clenched in the fabric of his shirt, then released him just as quickly. 

"Dammit Sammy, it's good to see you. This whole thinking you're dead thing does nothing for the cholesterol-"

"Good to see you too." Sam gasped out. "Time to go now." 

"You get the plastic explosive?" Like always, Dean had known what Sam would do, probably before he did it.

Sam nodded, grabbing Dean's arm, and turning to ruin again. 

"ETA five minutes."

"Oh great." They were both sprinting then, mentally ticking off the seconds left to them. Not many. 

"I'm so sick of running everywhere." Sam huffed as they took out three more Fijarians, and leapt over their lifeless forms. 

"Tell me about it." They slammed into the hangar with a little over a minute to spare. The Tardis stood, blue and solid, in the alcove. 

"Oh praise God." Dean muttered, as they took the stairs three at a time. They were almost halfway when it happened. Letting loose a mournful groan, the Tardis faded and reappeared, this time fainter. She was taking off. They lunged for the door, just as it vanished for the fourth time, and instead of touching solid wood, Sam's hands slid straight through, and he smashed into the wall the other side. It would have been funny, if not for the hands on Sam's watch ticking away their remaining seconds. 

He drew himself to his feet, then met Dean's eyes, his heart aching. There was no escape now. No way they could get out of this one. They stood in silence for a second.

"You shouldn't have come after me, Sammy."

"Bit late now." Sam tried to blow off his comment. "Anyway, isn't it better like this?"

"Yeah, us about to be torn apart by an explosion in a spaceship thousands of miles from earth... excuse me if I don't break out the party poppers."

"It's worth it."

"Yeah... Yeah I know." A costly second slips away, before Dean starts suddenly. 

"You know when I have those crap ideas, and they turn out to be awesome?"

"And then we usually die, yeah."

Dean grinned. "Bad habit." He rummaged in the duffel, then pulled out an untouched grenade. He pocketed it, then gestured to Sam. "Follow me."

Taking a single step back, he twisted his body, then took a running leap, launching himself from the balcony. It was suicide. It was also, however, genius. He landed on one of the plane wings, coming up in a shoulder roll to avoid breaking a leg. Sam followed moments later, by which time Dean had already popped the hatch on the cockpit. He slid inside, and Sam joined him.

"You know this is nuts right?"

"Yep." Before he closed the glass case- it was lined with black putty, which Sam really hoped was an air seal- Dean took careful aim just before he pulled the pin, launching the grenade towards the front of the hangar. The side they hadn't explored. The side, hopefully, that led into space. 

Sam helped Dean lower the top of the aircraft, and caught sight of the bottles beside their feet. Twisting the pressure gauge, he seized both masks, and threw one towards Dean, sucking in grateful gasps of oxygen as he did. In the next second, the grenade tore through the exterior of the ship, a fist of debris punching through the skin of metal. There was no oxygen in space, so the explosion was soundless, and only contained the barest flame. The real damage came from the fragments of metal, forced into rapid movement. 

Sam caught sight of the pinprick stars through the gap, but then they were yanked towards the abyss, the vacuum sucking the craft towards space. 

"Hold on Sam!" Dean yelled, punching the various controls. The engine caught with a cough, and roared into life just as they passed the outside of the ship. Pulling sharply on what looked like a joystick, flames roared out behind them, and they were propelled sharply forward. The entire ship was shaking, vibrating so much Sam could feel his teeth shuddering crazily in his skull. He were crushed back in his seats, pressure like nothing he'd ever felt forcing his body back. His vision blurred, and his eyes were being crushed mercilessly. Each cell of his body was on fire, and each muscle he had was wildly taut, his body bucking against the straps cutting into his chest. 

He heard Dean screaming next to him- it was impossible not to, the sounds drawn out of their lungs with brutal force. 

Sam managed to reach out a hand, and slammed on the accelerator. They were still too close. Through the blur in his vision, he realized they were spiralling backwards, giving them the perfect view as certain stars began to glow. Every sixth star was tinted red, and began burning with more intensity. The gap between them was a deep black, not breached by the faint starlight, and growing every second. Sam knew then that they had been too slow, again, that Loki had been released onto the universe, and they were all going to pay for it. 

Anguish washed over them, and suddenly they wanted nothing more than to end themselves. A knife, a gun, did it matter?

Sam barely paused to look at his brother, uncaring in his desperation. Dean had never loved him anyway. He had used him, time and time again; his pathetic little brother. He would kill Dean himself. Despite the pressure crushing his body against the seat, he managed to get a hand to his gun. He would kill Dean, then open the hatch and release their bodies to the merciless depths of space. He was just fumbling the thing from his duffel when Dean's hands latched around his throat. Sam struggled, kicking out, but the transition into zero gravity had sapped all his strength. 

His vision had just began to fade into darkness, when the ship exploded behind them, a shock wave emitting from the craft. It imploded in a mess of detritus and debris, pushed into itself by the lack of atmosphere around it. As it did, the darkness that had enveloped the stars snapped closed, leaving flickering starlight in its place. Dean's hands loosened from Sam's throat, horror in his eyes. 

His fingers were suddenly frantic against Sam's throat, scrambling for a pulse, and Sam could just make out his voice, shouting his name. Sam choked out a gasp, then scrambled for his oxygen mask, taking in deep breaths of pure oxygen for a second before he could respond. 

"We... did it." He said faintly. "About... freaking time." He began to fade into unconsciousness, but without warning, their ship was yanked backwards, as easily as if a hand had plucked it from the air. 

"No!" He heard Dean get out, then jabbing desperately at the controls. Sam couldn't find the energy to open his eyes, but felt it as his brother relaxed against him. 

"It's okay, Sammy." Dean whispered. "It's gonna be okay." Curious, Sam forced his weary eyes open. 

Their ship was careening towards the Tardis, its doors wide and inviting. But too small. Much, much too small. Sam tried to reach something, anything that could stop them from crashing into the police box and destroying them all, but there was nothing they could do. He squeezed his eyes shut as they reached the door, anticipating yet more pain, and the flare of an explosion. Instead, somehow, the craft- about the size of a bi-plane- slipped easily through, and seemed to hit some sort of air cushion. Their ship slid to a halt, then came to rest against the ground with a deafening thud. Once they'd landed, everything was very quiet. 

"Ladies and gentlemen." Dean coughed. "Thank you for taking Winchester airlines. Please unfasten your seatbelts." Sam laughed then, a choked, gurgling sound composed of pure relief.

The hatch above then was thrown open, and hands were reaching down to pull them free from the wreckage. Sam didn't have the energy to move his body, his head spinning. 

Dean was helped to sit next to him, as out of it as Sam. 

"It's good to see you two! Sorry about before, good doctor Watson here got a little twitchy. And I really don't like having guns pointed at me, I have a really bad habit of doing exactly the opposite of what they wanted me to do. So I created an air corridor- it almost didn't work, but then again I am very clever-" 

Sam leant over and vomited all over the Doctor's shoes. Slumping forward, his body went completely slack, numbness taking control of his limbs. 

There was a thud as Dean hit the floor beside him. 

"How come they never show this bit in Star Wars?" Dean muttered to him. Sam hummed in agreement, then let unconsciousness take him.


	12. Scones and Insanity || DW/LOCK/SPN

John wasn't really sure what happened next. After seeing just under a minute left on the clock, he had looked over at the three innocent kids about to be roasted alive, and forced the Doctor to take off. Then again, he didn't think anyone could force the Doctor to do anything, so maybe he'd known the Winchester's would make their own way out. He hoped so. 

John sat in a comfortable leather chair in the main control room. Sam and Dean had been taken to some chamber or other that would help with their sickness, the Doctor said. They had taken the hostages home first. John only got a glimpse of a world wreathed in blue, before the Doctor had slammed the door behind him. He returned minutes later, a sad smile on his face. 

"They're home." He said in response to the unspoken question in John's eyes. John nodded. 

"Will they be okay?" He asked. The Doctor spread his hands.

"I don't know. Only time will tell, and I've always been rather good with time. So yes, yes, I think so."

John smiled for the first time since he'd first seen the impossible planet orbiting beneath him. 

"Good. I'm glad-"

Amy skipped up the Tardis steps, hands in the pockets of her jeans. 

"How's Rory?" The Doctor asked, seeming to know the answer already. 

"Better. He's talking, and I gave him some of that broth stuff he likes from 2070." She smiled then, hesitant but real, and the Doctor swept her up in a hug. 

"Told you we'd be all right. Said we'd be ok."

"Liar! You had no idea!"

The Doctor shrugged modestly. "No, but I am a very good liar." Catching sight of John, he seemed to remember himself, and spun towards the console. "Right. Earth. London. Twenty minutes after you left, coming right up."

Dean emerged from a side corridor, cradling his head. 

"Ah, you're up!" The Doctor said brightly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck. Had worse."

"Yeah, that's normal. We'll be home in a minute, though."

"Hey, can you do me a favour?"

The Doctor pursed his lips. "Depends. No hunting advantages, no ways to let you kill -"

"What? No, nothing like that. Can you take us back to Kansas, not London, once you dropped Starsky and Hutch here off? I can't deal with any more of that scone and jam crap. I want some damn pie."

The Doctor chuckled, then flipped a switch on the console. "No problem. Though I do have some pie from the year 30-"

"Home. Now."

"Alright, alright, give us a minute." He darted around the controls, tapping a button here, lunging to press a lever there. The centre tube let out a groaning sort of wheeze, and suddenly the room was still. 

"221B Baker Street." The Doctor announced. "Welcome back." 

John nodded distantly, then pushed open the Tardis doors, still half expecting the interior of a space ship.  Instead, Mrs Hudson was sat on the sofa, a shattered cup of tea at her feet. She gaped at the sight before her, and John waved awkwardly. 

"Hello Mrs Hudson." He said stiffly. 

"But- you-"

"I know." He retreated back into the Tardis, and nudged Sherlock. "You ready to go home?"

Sherlock managed a nod, and got to his feet, pulling his coat on as he did. He stopped and looked back at the Doctor as he stood in the doorway. 

"Nothings ever going to be the same again, is it?" He asked. The Doctor shook his head. 

"No."

Sherlock left, his determined strides not betraying him as he stalked from the room. 

"Will I be seeing you again?" John inquired with one foot out of the door. The Doctor smiled. 

"Who knows?" John hesitated for a second, then snapped a salute. The Doctor gave him a lazy two-fingered salute in response, and John shut the door behind him. He did not turn to look as the box disappeared, but limped over to his chair, and sat stiffly down. 

"What...on earth?" Mrs Hudson gasped out. 

John heaved a sigh. "It's a long story."

~~~

Sam woke up feeling like he'd been slapped in the face. With a car. Groggily, he pulled himself upright, then grabbed at a railing as his head span. Letting out a groan, he staggered to his feet, not recognising his surroundings. Automatically weary, he made his way out of the room he was in, and up some sort of spiral staircase. He relaxed as he caught sight of the glittering control deck. Of course. Where else? 

He called out a croaky good morning as he approached, then slumped into a chair. 

"Morning sleepy head." Dean grinned. "How are you this morning? Experiencing bouts of holy-crap kill me now? The occasional feeling of being Godzilla's chew toy?"

"Uh-huh."

"Hey, join the club. Now I don't know about you, but I could do with downing a cup of coffee, then sleeping for a very long time."

"Seconded." Sam grumbled, rubbing at his face in some attempt to remain conscious. He bobbed a nod to Amy and Rory, who were sat quietly in an alcove above the control deck, and Amy sent him a little wave back. 

"Can we go home now?" He said, blinking.

The Doctor dipped his head in a nod, then began his odd dance around the console, as if trying to keep a leash on the machine, and the awesome power it commanded. 

"Ooh, now that's not very nice." The Doctor grimaced as he stopped to look at a screen. 

"What?"

The Doctor glanced at them. "Your bunker doesn't like me."

"Oh, that'll be the warding. Outsides fine."

The Doctor flipped a switch obediently, then parked the Tardis with ease. 

"Right then Winchester squared, you've got my number if you need it-"

"-No we don't-"

"You will soon then." 

Dean smiled, then seemed to stumble against the Doctor; he righted himself, then winced apologetically. 

"Sorry, my head all screwed. Can't-"

"No problem. See you round." The Doctor put a hand out to steady Dean, then handed him over to Sam, who had approached to make sure Dean was ok. 

Dean cast one last glance around the Tardis. 

"Ain't got nothing on baby." Sam heard him mutter. Sam smiled to himself, then offered a handshake to the Doctor. 

"Nice to meet you." He said as amicably as possible.

Dean offered his own grudging handshake. 

"Yeah, nice to meet you. Thanks man. Thanks for leaving us behind as well, great move by the way."

"Dean-" Sam tried to interrupt.

"I'm sorry about that. Again. Really. I am." The Doctor wrung his hands.

"It's fine." Sam shot him an insincere half smile, then pulled Dean from the Tardis, shutting the door softly behind him. Dean immediately straightened. 

"You get it?" Sam asked. Dean grinned, and flashed the psychic paper he'd pickpocketed from the Doctor only thirty seconds beforehand. 

"Easiest steal I ever did. Let's get inside before he realizes." They opened up the bunker, and had to grin at the sight of the bookshelves, the tables, the warm lights flickering on one by one. 

"Ok, let's agree never to do that again." Sam said dryly.

"I'm down with that." Dean agreed. He stumped into the kitchen, ridiculously pleased to be able to do such a simple task again. He could only grin as he yanked open the fridge and pulled out a budweiser. He offered one over his shoulder. 

"Sammy? You want a beer?"


End file.
